


A Ship In Harbor

by ImpishTubist



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-13
Updated: 2011-09-13
Packaged: 2017-10-23 17:13:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/252797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Lestrade was there for someone, and one time someone was there for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Ship In Harbor

**Author's Note:**

> An attempt at a 5+1 that turned out significantly longer than originally intended. No intended pairing, but slash goggles could easily be used. Feedback is always welcome.
> 
> Beta: Many thanks to Sidney Sussex for reading this over for me.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own them.

I.

The body on the sofa writhed uncomfortably, kicking away the blankets that only moments before had served to quell his fevered chills.

“Hot,” Sherlock mumbled accusingly, almost as though Lestrade was to blame for his illness.

“Yeah,” Lestrade muttered, resisting a sigh. “I know.”

He flipped over the wet cloth, pressing the cooler side against the kid’s burning forehead. He was suffering through the pains of withdrawal on Lestrade’s sofa, and had been since the DI had forced the door on his dingy Montague Street flat and found him on the floor, just shy of an overdose. Lestrade had been able to ascertain rather quickly that it wasn’t just cocaine in his system and  physically dragged Sherlock back to his own place, where he was forcing him to weather the worst of the storm.

Sherlock had become quite familiar with the sofa and the bathroom in the intervening hours, and the DI knew the worst of it was yet to come. When the illness passed - _if_ it ever passed, he thought darkly - it would leave in its place lethargy and depression, and those could linger for months.

_Stupid kid. Stupid, stupid kid._

“Fuck off,” Sherlock muttered suddenly, knocking away the hand that was trying to help. The cloth fell to the floor, and Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose.

“We need to get your fever down,” he said in as steady a voice as he could manage.

“What do you care?” Sherlock snapped and struggled to sit up.

“God only knows,” Lestrade retorted, shoving him back against the pillows. “Don’t even think about it, kid. You’ll just make yourself sick again.”

The brief movement seemed to have used up whatever spare energy Sherlock had in his withdrawal-wracked body. He did nothing effective to resist Lestrade and, as soon as his head sank into the pillow, his eyes slid closed.

“You’re only doing this because you need me,” he muttered, and if Lestrade didn’t know any better he would say that the simple statement of fact was laced with bitterness.

“I’m doing this,” Lestrade said levelly, “because I’d rather not see you dead. That a crime?”

“Why?”

Lestrade snorted and said, “You’re the detective. You tell me,” because it was easier than admitting that he truly didn’t know.

“You’re a fool,” Sherlock muttered.

“Yeah, I’m starting to see that.” Lestrade retrieved the cloth from the floor and used it to wipe the fresh beads of sweat from Sherlock’s forehead, and for a moment silence passed between them while Sherlock drew ragged breaths and Lestrade cursed every deity he didn’t believe in for saddling him with this mad genius, even though he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“And an idiot,” Sherlock added after a moment, and Lestrade blew out a frustrated breath between his teeth.

“Right, come on. Bed,” Lestrade decided abruptly. He gave  Sherlock’s shoulder a light push and two furious eyes fluttered open to fix on his. “I’m not having you spend the night on the sofa.”

He left out the fact that the spare bedroom was closer to his own and that, along with the flat’s naturally-thin walls, would make it easier to hear Sherlock’s inevitable distress during the night.

Sherlock huffed and tried to roll over so that he was facing the back of the sofa and away from the DI. Lestrade lifted an eyebrow and prodded him in the side. Sherlock flinched as the finger found a sensitive spot.

“You walk,” Lestrade said slowly, “or I carry you. You’re not spending the night out here, so save yourself the embarrassment and me the pain.”

A bit of both happened, in the end, as Sherlock relied on Lestrade’s steadying hand to make it all the way to the bedroom. The short walk taxed his already weakened legs and he all but fell into the bed, prevented from smacking his head against the wall only by Lestrade’s quick reflexes. The DI grabbed a wastepaper bin as Sherlock shuffled under the blankets and set it by the side of the bed.

“Right, you’re going to be needing that at some point, more likely than not. Bang on the wall if you need something - I’m right next door. And - for the love of _God_ , just stay put. I’d really rather not have to go all over London tracking  down your sorry ass and dragging it back here, but you know I will.”

A hand snaked out from the mass of blankets as Lestrade turned to leave and snagged his trouser leg.

“Don’t,” Sherlock rasped.

Lestrade looked down at him in surprise, taking in the wide, glassy eyes and the too-flushed face and the sweaty hair. The kid was a pain in the ass, that was for sure. He was an irritation and arrogant and downright rude.

But Lestrade needed him, and he hadn’t considered for a moment that the reverse might be true as well. Something seized in his chest at the look on Sherlock’s face, and he allowed himself to be tugged back over to the bed.

“All right,” Lestrade said softly, perching on the mattress. He placed a hand hesitantly on Sherlock’s head, threading his fingers through the damp curls and giving  his scalp a quick scratch. The contact seemed to calm the younger man, and some of the tension eased from his sweat-slicked face. Lestrade repeated the gesture, smoothing the hair off his forehead and rubbing gentle circles across the top of his head.  “I won’t. I won’t leave.”  
\----  
II.

Sally Donovan hated the dentist.

That was perhaps an understatement. Most people hated the dentist - Lestrade knew of no one who looked forward to having a stranger poke around inside their mouth.

But Sally took that hatred to a whole new level. She _despised_ and _loathed_ and _avoided it at all costs_.

And, unfortunately, Lestrade mused, it would appear that her hatred was not unfounded.

“Today’s a better day, I take it?” Lestrade said as he rummaged through the kitchen cabinets in search of a glass.

He was in Sally’s flat, visiting his slowly-recuperating sergeant. Years of fear, severe dislike, and general stubbornness had finally been worn away as of late, and just two days before she had finally had her wisdom teeth removed. But she took it harder than most - perhaps due to her age, but more likely to do with the fact that they had wrenched her jaw open far wider than it could handle. She was smarting now from that more than from the actual surgery. Her face was still uncomfortably swollen and the pain medication (when she could keep it down) did little to distract her from the fact that there were four gaping holes in her skull and she had willingly consented to having someone drill into her head.

Sally wasn’t good with pain - it had a habit of making her lash out in anger at inconsequential things. She looked up hopefully, though, at his words,  but he shook his head.

“No, I mean, you still look awful. Seriously, your cheeks are -” He held his hands up on either side of his face, demonstrating how swollen her own was. Sally groaned and let her head fall back onto the pillow. “But you’re conscious, which is more than I can say for yesterday.”

“Yest’rd’y?” she managed. He smiled sympathetically and, having finally found her glasses, turned on the tap.

“Don’t remember? Yeah, I stopped by for a bit - you let me in, but you weren’t very coherent.” Lestrade finished filling the glass of water and went back over to the sofa. He pulled up a chair and then helped Sally sit up, supporting her with an arm around the back of her shoulders. She held the glass clutched in both of her hands and drank slowly, each swallow thought-out and deliberate.

“When was the last time you had your medicine?” Lestrade asked when she was finished, taking the glass and withdrawing his arm. She sank down onto the pillows and held up a finger.

“An hour ago?”

She nodded.

“Well, too soon for another, I’m afraid. Are you in pain?”

She shook her head, and he squeezed her shoulder.

“Liar. Feel up to trying some food?” He gave her a bracing smile and recalled the list of approved foods that someone had taped to her fridge. “I can make some _mean_ mashed potatoes.”

Her smile was lopsided and must have hurt, and she whispered a halting, “Thank ‘ou.”

He squeezed her hand and made for the kitchen once again.  
\----  
III.

“Do you think he’ll be able to help, Inspector?”

Lestrade stopped in his tracks at the bottom of the stairs and whirled at the soft voice, but when he caught sight of the woman trailing him down from 221B he heaved a sigh of relief.

“Mrs Hudson. I’m sorry, I didn’t even notice that you were -”

He gestured upstairs, but she waved him off.

“How could you have been expected to, dear? Lot on your mind.”

Well, now, if that wasn’t the understatement of the year then Lestrade didn’t know what was.

“Yeah, he’ll be able to help. I’ve never been disappointed in hi - the work he does.”

“He _does_ do a wonderful job, doesn’t he?” Mrs Hudson joined him at the bottom of the stairs and opened the door to her flat. “Come in for a minute, dear; you look about to fall over.”

“I really -”

“You told Sherlock an hour, didn’t you?” She gestured inside. “No reason why you shouldn’t allow yourself the same break. And, if I’m not mistaken, this _is_ your lunch break and whatever you have him working on isn’t terribly pressing. Otherwise you would have just called him out to wherever you were instead of coming all the way out here from the Yard - am I right?”

“I think, Mrs Hudson,” Lestrade said with a small smile, “that your tenant is rubbing off on you.”

“That’s very sweet, Inspector, but you still haven’t answered my question.”

Lestrade gave a snort of laughter, said, “Yeah, all right, I suppose I do have a minute,” and followed her inside.

“Can I get you something? Tea?” she asked as she made her way to the kitchen, leaving him in the living room.

“No, thank you. I shouldn’t stay too long.” Lestrade stood  in the middle of the room, hands clasped behind his back, and his gaze drifted to the many photographs that adorned the walls while Mrs. Hudson clattered around in her kitchen. They were mainly, he assumed of friends and distant family. He knew from previous visits and brief interactions that she had no immediate family members left.

It was intriguing, Lestrade mused, the deceptions that could be wielded by such treasured items - how easily a smile could convey a happy marriage; how easily a laugh could portray a happy child; how easily a hand on the shoulder could mask a decade of abuse.

“I miss him sometimes. Is that strange?”

Mrs. Hudson appeared at his elbow, startling him for the second time in less than an hour. She was holding a cup of tea and staring at the wall. Lestrade followed her gaze to the photograph right at his eye level, that of a young couple on their wedding day. They appeared nowhere else together in the rest of the photographs - in fact, that was the only one containing the man. It didn’t take much of a genius to figure out who he was.

“No,” Lestrade said softly. “No, not at all. I don’t think so.”

Mrs. Hudson nodded. “He was a horrible man, at the end. He deserved - well, he wasn’t the man I married, Inspector. I miss _that_ Edgar. The one I fell in love with. The man who died in Florida wasn’t my husband. And yet, he was.

“Sometimes I feel like it isn’t right, missing a man who did such heinous things. I feel like - it dishonors their memories. His victims’.”

“I don’t think so,” Lestrade said seriously. “You weren’t the one who harmed them; you weren’t responsible for his actions. It’s terrible what happened, yes, but you don’t owe those families anything. You didn’t create the murderer in your husband, and you lost someone, too. I don’t think anyone would blame you for missing him. How could they?”

She gave him a sad smile.

“You’re very forgiving, aren’t you, Inspector?” she said, patting his arm, and Lestrade didn’t know what to say to that because no one had ever put it that way before. But there were echoes of her assessment of him in Sherlock’s constant, “You’re a fool,” and John’s, “It’s almost like you’re too kind, sometimes.”

“I think I’ll have that cup of tea, actually,” he said finally, hoping to steer the scrutiny away from himself.

“Oh, that’s lovely, dear,” Mrs Hudson said, face lighting in an instant at the prospect. “But don’t you have to be getting on?”

“Eventually, yes, but I have a few more minutes yet,” he said, even though he didn’t, and reached out to squeeze her elbow. “I’d love to hear more about him - your husband. You look very happy with him.”

Her answering smile was watery, but her eyes were grateful.  
\----  
IV.

There was a certain hour  when Lestrade could guarantee having almost the entirety of NSY to himself. It was usually around this time of the night, the time when the old day bled into the new and his eyes started to blur the words on the screen of his laptop. He took off his reading glasses and rubbed at his weary eyes, but when that did nothing to improve his vision he sighed, got up, and went for a quick walk.

His feet carried him in the dark to the break room, where he contemplated the value of yet another cup of coffee but settled on water. He was on his way back to his office when a flash  in the corner of his field of vision caught his attention and, glancing around the corner, he noticed that the light had been turned on in the copy room.

Odd, for someone else to be here so late, but not completely unheard of. Lestrade walked down to the room, glanced inside, and was surprised to see that it was Anderson who was still there. He was bent over the copy machine, shirtsleeves rolled up, a pile of folders on the table next to the machine and a smudge of ink on his cheek. He looked like he hadn’t yet been home that evening.

Lestrade rapped on the door. Anderson started and looked up, but upon seeing that it was Lestrade standing there his face immediately closed and he turned back to the copy machine.

“What can I do for you, sir?” he asked stiffly.

“Bit late, don’t you think?” Lestrade probed. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you here past midnight.”

“First time for everything,” Anderson said. “I had some work to catch up on.”

 _Liar_. He was here because the work offered for him, as it did for Lestrade, a refuge - there was little for either of them beyond it. But even that wasn’t completely true, because even the escape that work gave him - and wasn’t _that_ a grim thought, finding solace in homicides - was often ripped out from under Anderson’s feet by a certain consulting detective.

“Daniel.”

Anderson tensed at the rare use of his first name but still did not look up.

“I’m sorry.”

Anderson shook his head. “What for?”

“Sherlock.” As if the answer wasn’t obvious.

“He’s got you apologizing for him now, too?” Anderson snapped in a rare display of anger before he quickly shut down again, realizing that he had gone too far.  Lestrade didn’t bother to admonish him because it was true: Sherlock had been particularly awful that day, and Lestrade had spent the majority of it cleaning up after him, soothing tempers and mending bruised egos.

John was out of town visiting his sister and the case hadn’t been particularly interesting to the detective, even though it had stumped the rest of them. He had solved it in about two hours - pretty spectacular, for Sherlock, but it was still two hours too long. They put on a brave face, Lestrade’s team, but the short amount of time spent with Sherlock today was the equivalent of about a week locked in a room with the detective. It would take them all a while to recover from the verbal abuse - Lestrade included, even though he had a  thicker skin than most when it came to the  wild man.

“For what it’s worth: I wish we didn’t need him,” Lestrade said softly, voicing aloud for the first time a deep and well-guarded secret. _And I wish he didn’t need us._

“But we do,” Anderson said, almost sadly.

Lestrade nodded solemnly.

“You do good work, you know. Great stuff, actually,” Lestrade told him. “You wouldn’t be on this team if you didn’t. Remember that.”

Anderson nodded, the shadow of a smile gracing his features. Lestrade turned to go, but a final thought crossed his mind.

“And - I’m proud of you, Dan.”

The hesitant smile he got in return was the first genuine one he had seen from the man that day.  
\----  
V.

John was making tea.

“How’s the clinic?” Lestrade asked as he perused the bookshelf, running his fingers over the spines of all the strange and obscure titles Sherlock had collected. Many of titles were in languages that Lestrade could only guess at.

“Nothing new there, really,” John called from the kitchen. “Flu season, so that’s always interesting. Well, hellish, really. Speaking of which -”

“Yes, I’ve had my flu shot, _Doctor_ ,” Lestrade said with a smile. John poked his head around the door.

“You, really? You _despise_ needles. And doctors, too, come to think of it. How -?”

“Sally,” was all Lestrade provided, and rather darkly at that. John failed to stifle his grin and ducked back into the kitchen.

“Well, good on her. You know, I - “

But then John stopped abruptly, and didn’t continue. Lestrade turned away from his examination of the bookshelf.

“John?”

When there was no answer, he paced over to the doorway to the kitchen and glanced inside.

“Everything all right?”

“Yeah, fine,” John said suddenly, snapping back to himself. “I just -”

He waved a hand vaguely at the counter, and Lestrade saw that he had filled three cups of tea. His throat closed tight, and all he could manage was a small, “Oh.”

“I keep doing that,” John said, almost angrily, and he dumped the contents of the third cup out in the sink. “Stupid little things like that - making too much food, making too much tea. Car backfired outside yesterday morning. It sounded like he was shooting the walls, and - well, I was already yelling at him before I remembered.”

“Yeah,” was all Lestrade could think to say, and he was glad that Sherlock’s phone had gone with him when he’d vanished in Moriarty’s wake. He still called the detective by accident (which John didn’t need to know) and texted - well, the texting was on purpose. There was no other way for him to yell at Sherlock, not anymore.

_Fuck you, Sherlock. You weren’t supposed to die on us yet._

_I hate you._

_No, I don’t._

“Have you been all right?” he asked finally.

“Have you?”

Lestrade said nothing in response, and John nodded to himself. Lestrade’s visits to 221B had become a regular habit in the months since Sherlock’s disappearance - _death_ , since his death - and John, in turn, had been putting in regular appearances at the Yard. It was hard, having known Sherlock Holmes and lost him. They were the ones left behind, the ones who had gotten caught up in his wild wake, the ones who had been shown a unbelievably mad world - _the battlefield_ , John had called it once - and then were expected to return to normality; expected to resume their lives as though the greatest man who had ever lived hadn’t touched them in the slightest. But they were also the only ones who knew what the other had lost and that, at least, was something no one else could take away.

 _He’s like the sun_ , John had said once. _And when he looks at you - really sees you, really knows that you’re there - it’s like everything else falls to nothing. But then he looks away - then he leaves - and it’s cold and dark and just empty. And you’re supposed to forget that it ever happened in the first place, but how can you?_

The younger man finally raised his gaze from the cups of tea and looked at Lestrade. Their eyes locked.

John broke.

Lestrade was there to catch him as he fell.

  
It was dawn by the time Lestrade left Baker Street for the Yard. He had settled a weakened and exhausted John on the sofa and stayed for an hour after to make sure that he slept, all the while reminded vividly of the many times he had done the same for Sherlock.

He turned his face to the sky as he walked to his car, taking in the vicious streaks of red and orange shooting up from the horizon.

Red sky in morning.

It was going to rain.  
\----  
I.

The light was going to burn a hole into his skull, Lestrade was sure of it. He had done away with his office lights ages ago and was working from the light of the softer lamp on his desk, but even that wasn’t weak enough for the monstrous headache building behind his eyes. Tendrils of pain were shooting back into his skull, and everything throbbed. He wasn’t sure how much longer he was going to be able to hold out. He had to, though. There were forms to sign, yet, and paperwork to be filled out and late-night emails to answer.

He groaned as another wave of pain crashed over him, bringing with it a bout of nausea. He took off his reading glasses and pressed his palms against his eyes, willing it away, but his thoughts pounded along in tandem to the steady aching in his head.

And then, from nowhere, a hand tapped his shoulder and he started violently.

“Jesus, Sherlock!” he cursed when he opened his eyes - _goddamn it, fucking light_ \- and saw the detective standing before him, holding a glass of water and a pill.

It had been a month since the detective had fallen - quite literally - back into their lives, and yet Lestrade still wasn’t used to seeing the man’s lanky frame appear in his doorway or see his texts pop up on his mobile. Sometimes, Lestrade still woke up believing it all to be a dream. It was so bad in the first few days after Sherlock’s miraculous reappearance that Lestrade had actually scrawled a note - _Sherlock is ALIVE_ \- and pasted it to his mirror. The reminder greeted him each morning still  - he hadn’t been able to bring himself to take it down.

“What’s this?” Lestrade asked when he had sufficiently recovered himself. Sherlock huffed.

“What do you think it is, Lestrade? Medication. For the migraine you’re currently experiencing.”

Lestrade considered, for a moment, turning it down out of anger (anger at Sherlock for leaving them; anger at Moriarty for forcing it; anger at himself for not being able to help), but the pain won out and he gave in. Sherlock pulled around a chair from the other side of the desk as Lestrade downed the pill in one go and sat, elbows on his knees and fingers steepled under his nose, staring at the DI. Lestrade shifted uncomfortably; he got the distinct impression he was being catalogued.

But then another white-hot wall of pain struck him and he lost track of the world for a few moments. When the haze cleared and his  vision returned, Sherlock had a tentative hand on his shoulder.

“ ‘m all right,” Lestrade muttered.

“You are a terrible liar, Lestrade,” Sherlock admonished.

“Is that why you didn’t trust me enough with the knowledge that you weren’t _dead_?” Lestrade snapped before he could stop himself. His words landed, as his subconscious had intended, like a blow - Sherlock, for a brief moment, looked as though he had been struck. Lestrade took pleasure in his shock for only a moment, and then it was replaced by a sick feeling of guilt.

“Sorry,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean -”

“Yes, you did,” Sherlock interrupted. “And it had nothing to do with trust, Lestrade. You know perfectly well that I did not even confide in John.”

“But, Christ, Sherlock, I thought you were dead for _three years_ ,” Lestrade spat. Pain made him careless, and anger doubly so. He would never, under normal circumstances, ever say any of this to the detective’s face. But he had buried and mourned the man sitting  before him three years ago, and three years of pain and regret couldn’t be erased in a single moment, especially with the knowledge that he would be doing it all over again someday - he never expected to outlive Sherlock. Once was hard, unbelievably so; twice, he was sure, would kill him. “And now you aren’t and it - it feels like a dream; like we’re waiting for the other shoe to drop. And it’s bloody terrifying.”

“The more people I involved, the riskier it became. Every person was a liability, Lestrade,” Sherlock said vehemently.

“You don’t have to fight your battles alone, much as you may want to,” Lestrade retorted, trying to keep his voice under control It still sounded bitter to his own ears. “You haven’t had to for a long time. And sometimes - sometimes it helps to have an army at your side. Even if it’s only me and John.”

Sherlock was silent for some moments, and then said, “I have no intention of allowing this to occur again.”

“But you can’t guarantee that.”

“How many consulting criminals do you think there are in the world, Lestrade?” Sherlock said, a hint of amusement in his words. Lestrade didn’t smile back, because it wasn’t like Sherlock to be so dismissive.

“There was at least one more than I originally thought. Not a stretch to think there could be more.” He sighed. “And you know as well as I that not all dangers come in such extraordinary packages. _Christ._ ”

He leaned forward, anger overridden by another thrum of pain. He rested his arms on his knees and dropped his head into his hands. _Fuck_ , did it hurt. How long ago had he taken the pill? Five minutes? God, it would be at _least_ another half an hour before it started to kick in.

There was a soft rustling as Sherlock leaned over and clicked off the lamp on his desk, and then a moment later there was a hand resting on his head. Lestrade drew a pained breath at the contact, but then the fingers started to move, rubbing lightly over his scalp and raking through his short hair. A shiver went down his spine and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. His skin prickled where Sherlock’s fingers ran over it, sensitive and hyper-aware, but _hell_ , did it feel good. It didn’t chase away the pain completely, but it certainly didn’t hurt - and, if nothing else, it distracted him from the worst of the throbbing and started to ease the tension in his neck and shoulders.

“What are you doing?” he mumbled, trying to sound indignant and failing utterly.

“I believe this is known as ‘helping,’ though I could be mistaken,” Sherlock said dryly. Lestrade reached up and took the hand from his hair, giving it a quick squeeze before pushing it away.

“I appreciate it, Sherlock, but I’m fine. Go home. Go to John.”

“John will wait.”

“He’s waited long enough, I think.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “So have you.”

“Go on, Sherlock,” Lestrade insisted. “I’ll be fine.”

“You have been  allowed to say that too many times without question over the years, Lestrade. No.”

Lestrade blinked in surprise.

“Right. Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?”

He could almost _feel_ the exasperation that rolled in waves off the detective at those words.

“It appears time has  done nothing to improve your sense of humor. Pity.” Sherlock reached over to the desk for the glass of water and pressed it against Lestrade’s forehead. The DI sucked in a sharp breath as the icy glass touched his skin, but it brought with it near-instant relief. It was a false relief, of course, but relief all the same. He tried to take the glass from Sherlock but the detective held firm, batting his hands away as though they were nothing more than insistent flies.

Lestrade eventually gave in and let his head fall into his hands once more, closing his eyes as Sherlock gently - _gently_ ; Sherlock never did anything gently in his life - rolled the glass across his forehead, slowly taking it from temple to temple and back again. He did this until the ice cubes stopped clinking against one another; until the heat from Lestrade’s skin melted them all and turned the water temperate. Lestrade had no idea how much time passed, allowing himself to drift away on alternating waves of pain and cold, but eventually the pressure vanished from his forehead and he heard the glass being set down on the desk once again.

“The cold helps,” Sherlock stated, as though he were seeking approval; wondering if he had gotten it right. Sherlock being gentle; Sherlock worried about disappointing others - the years had changed him, indeed.

“Yeah, it does,” Lestrade admitted, lifting his head and pleased to find that the movement only stirred soft rumblings of pain. The migraine was already retreating. He added, “That was - ah -  good, very good of you.”

“You did the same for me, once.”

Lestrade swallowed hard and said, “That doesn’t mean that you -”

“If I tell you that I wanted to,” Sherlock interrupted, raising an eyebrow at him, “will you leave it at that?”

He got briskly to his feet and tugged on his gloves, making to leave as abruptly as he had appeared. Lestrade turned back to his laptop and switched on the lamp again. Reality returned with the light that spilled harshly over his paperwork. It chased away the comfortable, surreal haze of the darkened room; chased away the world that was just him and Sherlock, the world where everything else faded into the background because none of it mattered.

“You’d have been hurt.”

“Hmm?” Lestrade paused in massaging the back of his neck and looked up. Sherlock had paused in the doorway on his way out and stood there, concealed in shadows.

“It might not have ended well,” he said at length. “And I did not wish for you to come to harm.”

Lestrade smiled sadly.

“And a ship is safest in harbor, Sherlock,” he said in a low voice, picking up his pen once more, “but that’s not what ships are for.”  
\----

**Author's Note:**

> Final Notes: Lestrade’s final line is a paraphrase of a quote that has been [attributed to a variety of different people](http://forum.quoteland.com/eve/forums?q=Y&a=tpc&s=586192041&f=099191541&m=2431949321#9041901421), and each version is slightly different.


End file.
